The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,4

since she was twelve.

All these years living her life the way she wanted had, apparently, led to a situation where it would be all too easy for Michael to make Benna disappear.

She didn’t know where Michael planned to “tuck her away” but she could easily guess.

Bumpkin though she was, she knew of those quiet houses in the country, set away from towns and busy roads, places where inconvenient or embarrassing family members could be stored like unwanted furniture, away from the prying eyes of society.

Indeed, when she was younger, she recalled hearing murmurs of an aunt on her mother’s side who was locked away.

What had happened to that woman? Benna didn’t even know her name. Was she still alive? Did anyone remember her? Did anyone care?

A strange sound assaulted her and Benna realized her teeth were chattering. Not from cold, but from fear.

Good God. What am I going to do? Who can I tell? Who would even believe me, not to mention help me?

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks and she angrily brushed them away with the heel of her hand.

It was already early Wednesday morning and he’d said they’d marry sometime on Monday.

Benna swallowed, almost choking on her fear. I’ve got less than six days to stop him.

Chapter Two

Cornwall

1817

Six Years Later

Benna pitchforked the last of the ancient, rotting straw from the stall into the rickety wheelbarrow and then paused to catch her breath.

She didn’t mind the smell of fresh horse droppings, but the Earl of Trebolton’s stables stank of damp, neglect, and decay; it was clear they’d not been cleaned in years.

Everyone in the area knew that the new earl was terribly short of money, hence his willingness to hire somebody like youthful Ben Piddock as his stable master-cum-groom-cum-postilion-cum-stable lad and so forth.

Thanks to Lord Trebolton, Benna was king—or queen—of all she surveyed: dozens of dirty stalls; a tack room filled with cobwebs and crumbling leather; a defunct smithy and forge; two enormous, empty stable blocks; five horses, four of which were ancient carriage horses who could barely haul themselves, not to mention an actual vehicle; and one cantankerous mule named Hector.

Bringing the Trebolton stables back to life was a job that would have kept a dozen employees busy.

In the month she’d been working for the earl she’d repaired broken stall doors, dug up rotting posts and cross-pieces on the outdoor enclosures, replaced cracked and missing roofing tiles, and handled dozens of other small projects. It was hard work—harder than anything she’d done in the almost six years since she’d left Wake House, but Benna adored her job.

Not to mention your employer.

Benna grimaced at the familiar, unwanted voice. Even though she had not seen Geoffrey Morecambe for almost a year, her ex-employer’s voice had become an annoyingly persistent presence in her head.

She knew that she shouldn’t engage phantom Geoffrey in conversation. Not only had arguing with him in real life been pointless, but she also suspected that bickering with one’s own mind was not a badge of sanity.

But it wasn’t as if she had anyone else to talk to, so …

So what if I find the earl appealing? she retorted. It’s not as if I have any plans to act on my attraction.

Which is just as well, considering how matters ended the last time you let yourself be guided by infatuation.

Thank you, Geoffrey. I hardly need reminding of that disaster.

“Hallo? Ben? Are you in there? Ben?”

Benna jolted at the new voice, which came from out in the corridor, rather than inside her head. And it belonged to the earl’s eldest niece, Lady Catherine.

“Blast and damn,” Benna whispered.

“My uncle has need of you, Ben,” Lady Catherine’s voice floated down the dank, dim passage to where Benna stood frozen with indecision.

Did Lord Trebolton really want to see her or was Catherine employing her uncle’s name the way hunters used beaters to flush out game?

“He says it is important, Ben.”

Benna ground her teeth. “I’ll be right there, my lady,” she called back using the low, gruff voice that was second nature to her after masquerading as a man for so long.

Benna leaned the pitchfork against the wall, wiped her filthy hands on her woolen breeches, and snatched up her coat, shrugging it on over her damp, sweaty shirt and vest.

Lastly, she tied on her red-checked neckcloth and shoved her hair off her brow before clapping her battered, dusty cap on her head.

She grimaced when she caught a whiff of her own body odor, which smelled a lot like the ancient manure and